“But you do not like her,” he persisted.

She shrugged her shoulders slightly.

“I am afraid it is true,” she agreed.

“You admit that and yet you are willing to be her guest?”

She smiled at him approvingly.

“If there is one masculine quality which I do appreciate,” she said, “it is directness.  I come because I love bridge and because I love my fellow-creatures and because my own friends are none too numerous.  With the exception of those worthy friends of our host and his wife who are seated upon your right—­Mr. and Mrs. Horsman, I believe they are called—­we are all of the same ilk.  Mr. Starling no one knows anything about; Count Sabatini’s record is something awful.”

“But there is Rosario,” Arnold protested.

“Rosario goes into all the odd corners of the world,” she replied.  “Sometimes the corners are respectable and sometimes they are not.  It really doesn’t matter so far as he is concerned.  Supposing, in return for all this information, you tell me something about yourself?”

“There isn’t anything to tell,” Arnold assured her.  “I was asked here to fill up.  I am an employee of Mr. Weatherley’s.”

She turned in her chair to look at him.  Her surprise was obvious.

“Do you mean that you are his secretary, or something of that sort?” she demanded.

“I am a clerk in his office,” Arnold told her.

She was evidently puzzled, but she asked him no more questions.  At that moment Mrs. Weatherley rose from her place.  As she passed Arnold she paused for a moment.

“You are all coming in five minutes,” she said.  “Before we play bridge, come straight to me.  I have something to say to you.”

He bowed and resumed his seat, from which he had risen quickly at her coming.  Mr. Weatherley motioned to him to move up to his side.  His face now was a little flushed, but his nervousness had not disappeared.  He was certainly not the same man whom one met at Tooley Street.

“Glad to see you’ve made friends with the wife, Chetwode,” he said.  “She seems to have taken quite a fancy to you.”

“Mrs. Weatherley has been very kind,” Arnold answered.

“Enjoying yourself, I hope?” Mr. Weatherley asked.

“Very much indeed,” Arnold declared.  “It has been quite a treat for me.”

Sabatini and Starling were talking earnestly together at the other side of the table.  Rosario, bringing his wine down, came and sat at his host’s other side.

“Beautiful vintage, this, Mr. Weatherley,” he said.  “Excellent condition, too.”

Mr. Weatherley, obviously pleased, pursued the subject.  In a way, it was almost pathetic to see his pleasure in being addressed by one of his own guests.  Arnold drew a little away and looked across the banks of roses.  There was something fascinating to him in the unheard conversation of Sabatini and Starling, on the opposite side of the table.  Everything they said was in an undertone and the inexpressive faces of the two men gave no indication as to the nature of their conversation.  Yet the sense of something mysterious in this house and among these guests was growing all the time with Arnold.